The Court of a Thousand Suns

by Chris Bunch

  Sten looked at Alex. "He had us both. You know that, don't you?"

  Alex gave him a slight squeeze and then pushed him forward to the Zaarah Wahrid's lock panel. "So he did, laddie. But then, someone hae't' sometime, dinnae they?"

  With a loud creak of old, unused metal, the yacht's door groaned slowly open. Sten barely waited for room to spare and dived inside. Alex turned back to stand guard.

  The interior was a gutted hulk, a jumble of valueless machinery and dangling wires that led nowhere. Sten cautiously edged his way through what had been the main cabin toward the pilot's cubbyhole. Though he encountered no booby traps, Sten realized that no one had ever intended to use the craft.

  He checked the doorway to the pilot's center. Nothing of danger that he could spot. He peered around the corner and his eyes widened in amazement.

  Someone had laser-torched away the entire control board. Sitting in its place was an enormous computer. Unlike everything else aboard the ship, it was gleaming spotlessness. Even as he watched, a tiny duster bot hummed out and made its mindless little trek across the main board. It shot out a thin polarized mist in front of it and then efficiently sucked up the motes of dust.

  Sten stepped up to the board. He still had no idea what would trigger the bomb. All he was really concerned about was when. Sten was betting that the thing was set up on some sort of a timer. That was logical, if for no other reason than to prevent an accident that would also wipe out the computer's files.

  His fingers ran across the keys: attention! zaarah wahridi The vid screen lit up. identity? Sten hesitated, and then made a fast guess: hakone. More digestion followed then: hakone, g.a.

  Sten sighed in relief. So far, so… and he continued tapping on the keys without hesitation. There was always a chance that a lack of instant response from the operator was the trigger, review files. The computer went at its task, calling up endless data. At first Sten couldn't figure out what he was seeing, and then he realized it was a list of main subheadings, hundreds of them, and they were repeating themselves, scrolling up the screen and then off. Sten tried to focus on the headings. Finally one scroll up: WAHRID COMMITTEE, DETAILS OF.

  Sten cranked the cursor up and froze the heading. request details, he punched in.

  The screen blinked twice, and then names and figures began sliding up the screen. Something else also appeared. Five overly large letters, forming a word or a name, began flashing urgently in the right-hand corner of the vid-screen. GADES! GADES! GADES! Over and over again, it repeated itself: GADES! GADES! GADES!

  Sten's insides went frigid. The bomb had been triggered. Obviously, he was required to punch in a code response to shut it off. He had no idea where to begin. Therefore, he did the most logical thing. Logical, if you are not particularly worried about living.

  He stared at the screen, concentrating as hard as he could on the blur of names and numbers and other details.

  A warning horn began to hoot. The bomb was moments away from going off. But still Sten remained there, frozen—taking in all his mind could hold. The hooting dimmed. It became only a minor annoyance in the back of his brain. He read on, and on.

  He heard an odd growling sound behind him. And then an enormous hand encircled his body and Sten felt himself being lifted up from the floor. All he could see was the swirl of data, and he realized that someone was carrying him through the ship at a dead run.

  An explosion of light burst into his face as they cleared the door.

  Alex stopped for a microbeat just short of a large loading container. Then he hurled Sten fifteen feet through the air. Sten felt himself soaring over the top and then saw the ground rushing up at him on the other side.

  An enormous explosion shook the area, deafening him.

  He came woozily back to reality, shaken by the blast. Somehow Alex was lying beside him.

  His friend stood up slowly and dusted himself off. Sounds of sirens wailed in the distance. Alex helped Sten to his feet. "Ah mu' talk to y', lad," the Scotsman said, "aboot th' nasty habit y' hae a' nearly killin' us."

  Chapter Forty

  The grounds around Hakone's mansion looked like a military base as uniformed men loaded weaponry into gravsleds, boarded, and the sleds sidled around, like so many dogs ready for a nap, into combat formation.

  The uniformed men were not ex-soldiers, since they were still carried on the roles of the Imperial military. They were deserters from the Praetorians who had been seduced or subverted into disappearing and used for long months for the conspiracy's dirty jobs.

  They were gleefully back in uniform, and in motion. After all those years Hakone should have been delighted; it was finally happening!

  But, like most things in life, it was happening at the wrong time. Even though Haines and Collins had thought every link to Zaarah V/ahrid had been cut, one alarm link had remained. When the ship exploded, Hakone knew immediately.

  Kai Hakone, not unsane, prided himself on his ability to instantly scope a situation. Zaarah Wahrid, both the computer files and the ship itself, were gone. He was under orders from the conspiracy's coordinator to wait until a certain signal was received from the Normandie before he moved. But things had changed, and he had no way to consult the coordinator, then aboard the Normandie.

  Hakone took command responsibility and put his people into motion. After all, the Emperor's death was a certainty, and the worst thing that might happen was that his people might have to hold in place for a limited amount of time.

  Hakone forced himself into cheeriness—he'd long recognized a tendency to brood—and bounded down the steps as his own personal combat car slid up to them and grounded.

  "You know the route, Sergeant."

  "Damn well better after all these years," the grizzled ex-Praetorian said. The car lifted off. The assembled grav-sleds followed, tucking themselves into an assault diamond as the sleds hissed over the port of Soward.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The pilot checked his proximity screen and radar, then grunted to himself in satisfaction. He touched controls, and the crane-mounted pilot's chair swung back and around from the banked array and deposited him at ground level. He unbuckled, and then decided his honor deserved a display. As he stood, his fingers brushed a control that turned the huge main screen to visual.

  Light-years away from the pulsar was a glare, visually and on all instruments. The Tahn pilot heard a murmur of discomfort from the Lords standing before him, then he blanked the screen and bowed. "Our coordinates are those ordered. We have the Imperial ships onscreen, and rendezvous is expected within ten ship-hours."

  Lord Kirghiz returned the pilot's bow before he and the other leaders of the Tahn system solemnly filed out of the control room.

  The pulsar—NG 467H in the star catalogs—was the third option given to the Emperor by the Tahn for the meeting. It had been the only one approved. The Emperor realized that the pulsar insured total radio silence from all parties. So unless an ambush was already set—and the Empire had more than enough confidence in the superiority of Imperial sensors to eliminate that possibility—no surprises would await, beyond whatever the Tahn dignitaries might want.

  Also the Emperor had a hole card. Imperial science being a notch ahead of the Tahn, the Emperor had a complex com-line out, all the way to the palace. The Emperor was desperately hoping that the line would be used during the summit. Not by him, but by Sten. If Sten managed to produce the main conspirator who had inadvertently caused Alain's death, negotiations would proceed far more smoothly.

  The Normandie and its flanking ships had picked up the incoming Tahn fleet hours before. An Imperial super-secret was responsible for that. Not only was the fuel AM2 solely controlled by the Emperor, but before it was sold the fuel was "coded." Only Imperial ships ran pure fuel. All others ran modified AM2. Imperial scoutships could pick up and identify at many light-years' distance the existence and rough identity of any non-Imperial ship.

  On the screens, the Tahn ships pushed a violet haze b
ehind them as they moved toward the rendezvous.

  The Emperor shut down the monitor screen in his quarters, looked at Ledoh, and took several deep breaths. "And so now it begins."

  Chapter Forty-Two

  "Are y' finished, wee Sten," Alex inquired gently. Sten coughed and straightened from the commode. Too quickly; his guts spasmed and he heaved again.

  "Advice, lad," Kilgour went on. "When y' feel a wee furry ring comin't up on y', swallow fast, since it's y'r bung."

  Sten recovered. Everything seemed stable. He rinsed his mouth at the sink then glared at Kilgour. "Your sympathies are gonna be remembered, Sergeant Major. On your next fitness report."

  He wobbled into the large central room of the Blue Bhor, then dropped into the nearest chair as the world swam about him again.

  Across the room Haines looked at him in concern, as did Rykor, her thick, whiskered face staring over the top of her tank.

  "Bein't brainscanncd is aye no a pleasure. Ah know y'll nae be wishin' naught." Alex poured drinks for Collins, Haines, and himself and extended the jug toward Rykor, who shook her head.

  "What did we get?" Sten managed. Less than two hours after the Zaarah Wahrid had blown, Sten had reluctantly put himself under Rykor's brainscan—as, earlier, he had done for Dynsman.

  "We have a complete list," Rykor began, "of all conspirators."

  Sten groaned in relief.

  "I amend that. We have a list of all sub-conspirators."

  Haines swore. "The little guys. Who's at the top?"

  "We already know that," Sten said. He was very, very tired. "Kai Hakone."

  Rykor whuffled through her whiskers. Somehow she'd gotten the idea that the salt-spray might be taken as an expression of condolence. "You are incorrect."

  Alex broke the silence. "Clottin' Romans!"

  Sten suddenly felt much better—or much worse. He fielded the decanter and poured about three shots straight down. His stomach immediately came back up on him, and Sten let his brain concentrate on not being sick for a moment.

  Haines muttered and stared at her carefully drawn conspiracy chart.

  "There was a link from the ship directly to the palace, just as there was a feeler into your files, Lieutenant," Rykor went on. "Unfortunately the palace end was not an information link, as you thought. It was a command input terminal."

  Sten started to blurt something, then caught himself. "Rykor, logic control."

  "As you wish."

  Sten forced his mind to reason clearly. "If Rykor's right, then our 'inside man' is actually the one we've got to take before we can nail all these little guys."

  "Correct."

  "And we have zed clues at present. Therefore, we need to snatch Hakone and drain him."

  "Error," Rykor said. "There is one possible clue. Also, since Hakone is near the top, should we not assume that any attempt on Hakone would immediately send all our conspirators to flight, leaving the dry rot still in place within the palace?"

  "Correction," Sten said, and then reacted. "Rykor, what's the clue, dammit?"

  "The computer bomb."

  "Gades," Sten remembered, pronouncing it as it appeared flashing on the Zaarah Wahrid's screen.

  "Try the same word with the accent on the first syllable," Rykor went on. Haines, Collins, and Alex were puzzling—and Sten was the only one who knew that Hakone, when he was describing the battle of Saragossa to him, had used the name.

  Rykor allowed herself the pleasure of submerging while Sten reacted, but she surfaced and continued before Sten could explain. "Second point. The conspirators are entirely too—cute, I believe was the word you used. They insisted on giving meaningful names to their scurryings.

  "Third. Somehow, the battle of Saragossa links all these beings together."

  "Collins," Sten barked. "The name is Gades. He was some kind of admiral at Saragossa. I want his file. Everything. Hell, is the clot alive? Is this the clown we're looking for?"

  Collins was headed for the nearest terminal.

  "Watch the references, Sergeant," Haines said, going after her. "The file might be booby-trapped."

  Since his stomach wasn't actively coming up on him anymore, Sten felt he deserved another drink.

  Alex went to Rykor's tank and looked properly respectful. "Lass, since y' no drinkit, Ah dinnae ken wha' y' should have as ae reward. Perhaps a wee fish?"

  Rykor heaved, flippers coming out of the tank and smashing down, salt water cascading over the room. For a moment Sten thought she was in convulsions.

  "Sergeant Kilgour!" Rykor finally managed as the waves subsided, "and for all these years I felt you humans lacked humor. You are a good man."

  "Alex," Sten crooned as he walked over and draped an arm around his sergeant. "At last we've found someone who understands your jokes.

  "Your next assignment will be as a walrus."

  Unfortunately Sten's hopeful easy solution was not to be.

  Admiral Rob Gades was very, very dead, by his own hand, three years after being relieved by an Imperial court after the debacle at Saragossa.

  Despite testimony that Gades's order for retreat had salvaged a full third of the invading force, the Imperial Navy was in no more mood than was the Empire itself to listen to a loser's explanations. Though the testimony was enough to keep the man from being stripped of his rank and awards and sentenced to a penal battalion, it was insufficient to keep him on active service.

  He'd used his retirement money to purchase a small planetoid in a frontier system and outfit it rather luxuriously. Then he'd disappeared. The mail ship that toured the planetoids three times a year had discovered the body, six months after Gades had put his parade sword against his chest and leaned forward.

  The Saragossa episode was his only black mark. He had been one of the youngest officers to reach flag rank, even allowing for the service-expansion the Mueller Wars had brought.

  Son of an Imperial Navy officer… superior records in creche… admitted to a service academy at the minimum allowable age… fourth in his graduating class… commissioned and served on tacships, fleet destroyers, aide to a prominent admiral, exec officer on a cruiser, commander of a destroyer flotilla, Command and General Staff school, military liaison on three important diplomatic missions, commander of a newly commissioned battleship, and then flag rank.

  "Th' lad hae luck, until th' last min," Alex considered.

  Sten nodded.

  Rykor tsked. Given the otarine structure of her head, it came out more like a Bronx cheer, but the proper intention was obvious.

  "You two disappoint me. Mahoney told me that you—" Rykor was about to say Mantis soldiers, but reconsidered, unsure whether Haines and Collins knew. "—people don't believe in luck."

  Sten looked at Alex.

  "We're missing something."

  "Aye. The wee crab-eater hae somethin'. Gie her th' moment a' triumph."

  Rykor savored it a minute before continuing. "Who recommended Gades to that exclusive military school? Who suggested to a certain admiral that Lieutenant Gades would make an excellent aide? Who boarded him for the flotilla command? Who got him those—I think you would use the phrase 'fat'—diplomatic assignments?…

  "One person—and one person only."

  Sten scrolled Gades' record and read the signatures at the bottom of those glowing recommendations and requests.

  "Oh Lord," he whispered softly.

  The rank and even the signature changed over the years. But the name was the same. Mik Ledoh. Imperial Chamberlain and the man closest to the Emperor!

  "And now we know who is at the peak of the conspiracy, do we not?"

  "But why Ledoh? What in blazes did he have to do with Gades?"

  Rykor flipped her own computer terminal open, order:

  COMPARE LEDOH AND GADES, ALL CATEGORIES. REPORT ALL SIMILARITIES.

  And eventually the computer found it. In the gene pattern…

  Regicide sometimes springs from very small beginnings—small, at least, to those not i
mmediately involved. Philip of Macedon died because he chose public instead of nonobjectionable private sodomy; Charles I could possibly have saved his head if he'd been more polite to a few small business people; Trotsky could have been less vitriolic in his writings; Mao III of the Pan-Asian Empire might have survived longer had he not preferred the daughters of his high-ranking officials for bedmates. And so forth.

  Admiral Mik Ledoh's attempt to kill the Eternal Emperor was rooted in equally minuscule events. Ledoh's first assignment in logistics was as supply officer on a remote Imperial Navy Base.

  The base sat outside even what were then the Empire's frontier worlds. Though a long way from nowhere, the base was positioned on an idyllic planet, a world of tropical islands, sun, and very easy living. Since the base's function was merely to support patrol units, dependents were encouraged to join wives or husbands on that assignment.

  Understaffed, the patrols and patrol-support missions were long. A probe ship would be out for four months or more before returning to duty. Compensation was provided by an equivalent time on leave.

  There was not much for those soldiers and sailors assigned to this tropic world, beyond fueling and maintaining the probe fleet. Bored men and women can find wondrous ways of getting into trouble. Ledoh, a handsome lieutenant, found one of the classics—falling in love with the wife of a superior officer.

  The woman was an odd mixture of thrill-seeker, romantic, and realist. Two months into their affair, one week before her husband returned from long patrol and subsequent transfer, she told Ledoh that she had chosen to become pregnant. While the young officer gaped, she listed her other decisions—she would have the child; she loved Ledoh and would always remember him; under no circumstances would she leave her upward-bound husband for a young supply officer.

  First real love affairs are always gut-churners. But that woman managed to make the memories even worse for Ledoh. He never saw her again, but he managed to keep track of her—and his son.